


it doesn't feel like Christmas (please come home)

by sanserifnotes (tuesdayafternoon)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, M/M, Merthur - Freeform, Modern
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdayafternoon/pseuds/sanserifnotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin wanted Arthur home for Christmas. He should've known to be careful what he wished for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it doesn't feel like Christmas (please come home)

**Author's Note:**

> Last entry for the [merlinchristmasfest](http://merlinchristmasfest.tumblr.com/). Despite being hella late with these last few entries, I'm so glad to have actually finished something within a semi-reasonable period of time! Prompt for this entry was, "Christmas, baby, please come home." 
> 
> Also available on [my blog](http://sanserifnotes.tumblr.com/).

Merlin tries so hard to resist.

It isn’t fair, not when he can remember the variation of blues in Arthur’s eyes, and not when he can recreate with a paintbrush the way Arthur’s face turned pink when he was embarrassed; not when he can fill a notebook, complete with diagrams, with the ways Arthur walks, talks, and acts when he’s unsure of himself. It isn’t fair when he can write a list of every insult Arthur ever threw at him, when he can write the musical notation for the insults that were expressions of affection with the right vocal intonation; not when all of his dreams are filled with Arthur, and all of his nightmares, too.

It isn’t fair, so inevitably he succumbs and ends up here.

It’s not snowing outside, but ever since the sun dipped behind the horizon, the wind’s been howling. It’s warm inside, though: the smell of gingerbread wafts through the air, mingling with the soft Christmas music coming from the radio and soft coloured lights that dance in the window. Merlin had been resolute, determined – but before he knows it, Arthur is there stealing gingerbread batter from the bowl, demanding a demonstration of the device that does the work of a band of musicians, and laughing as Merlin trips over his feet trying to string up the tiny magical candles. Arthur has so many questions, and Merlin tries to answer them with single sentences, single words whenever possible. But even after a thousand years, Arthur knows Merlin could never deny him anything and soon enough, Merlin is telling stories and making jokes, and Arthur need only press for details once in a while.

Now, Merlin sits on the couch, pliant and giddy from laughter. It’s like alcohol like that: the longer you go without it, the harder it hits you when you finally have a taste. Even the thought makes Merlin giggle.

Arthur smiles. “Idiot,” he says fondly, looking down through his eyelashes to where Merlin’s resting his head on Arthur’s shoulder. “Only you would laugh at nothing.”

“I’m just…” Merlin thinks about the word he wants to use. There’s only one that really fits. “Happy.”

“I’m pleased.” Arthur begins to stroke the back of Merlin’s hair. He’s slow, gentle, like Merlin’s something breakable.

Merlin snuggles in closer, and for a second he takes in Arthur’s chest as it rises and falls in front of his eyes. And suddenly he realises, _maybe I am_.

It comes on quickly, then. The heaviness that crashes over him reaches his limbs first, and he cannot so much as shake his head ‘no’ as Arthur slides a cushion under Merlin’s head and brings his feet up onto the couch. He would fight his uncooperative body with the last of his willpower, but that’s the next thing to go: his mind becomes dull and fuzzy around the edges, which voids any anger that could become strength but only dulls the pain that churns behind his ribs.

His eyes fail last, and as he fights a losing battle to keep them from rolling back into his skull, Merlin prays that Arthur can hear the whisper that forms on his lips.  

_Don’t go._

Then nothing.

The Christmas lights will still be flashing come the morning; the radio will still be playing, and the smell of gingerbread will cling to every surface for weeks to come. Merlin will be alone.

*  
The sun begins to set behind overcast skies. Another lonely year has gone by, and soon will start another.

Merlin waits by the lakeside, watching the figure climb out of the water. He has no doubts as to who this figure is, even beyond the distance he can see clearly through the fog. Without seeing the blonde hair dyed dark from the wet, the kind he knows so well after many a campaign spent in the pouring rain, and without seeing the chain mail, the one he knows every single link of because he’s polished or mended each one, he knows it’s Arthur. As he comes closer, Merlin’s gaze is drawn back to the water as it quickly swoops in to fill the space Arthur left behind; Arthur sputters and splashes, and creates noise and movement, but as soon as he takes but a few steps forward, the water succumbs to a stillness barely broken by ripples in its surface.

Arthur comes closer, but Merlin doesn’t move. Beside him, folded neatly in a plastic, Christmas-themed bag to protect it against the damp grass, is a towel, and beneath that is socks, a jacket, shirt, trousers – everything – all ready for this moment. Merlin’s been practicing his magic, what little remains of it, and he’s been building up his strength.

At long last, Arthur reaches Merlin.

“Excuse me, please,” he says, shivering, teeth chattering. He rubs his arms and hunches in on himself, the water cold despite the comparative warmth the winter fog provides. “Can you help–?” He stops, staring under Merlin’s hood.

Merlin passes him the towel, keeping his eyes carefully focused on the lake, like someone who doesn’t care at all.

“Merlin?” Arthur stutters out, taking the towel and wrapping it around his shoulders, swiping shakily at the droplets of water carving icy paths between his hair and neck. Lips blue and shifting uncomfortably against the wet material of his clothes, Arthur drops to his knees, searching Merlin’s face. Merlin can hear the recognition on his breath. “God, Merlin,” Arthur tries again in broken syllables. “I’m so cold.”

 Merlin turns his head, ever so slightly, towards Arthur then; he raises his hand to Arthur’s cheek, and Arthur closes his eyes, unconsciously turning into the touch. But Merlin barely allows his fingertips to graze cool flesh as he whispers a single word. They just skim the surface, the slightest brush of skin: Merlin can’t take more than that.

It’s enough, though. Arthur is dry and warm and wearing the clothes that Merlin brought for him. He flexes his arms, the fabric no doubt feeling foreign and the warmth no doubt feeling fresh and new. Merlin sighs.

“I’m back,” Arthur says. A wind whips up, whistling straight through Merlin. Arthur’s nose and cheeks take on a red tinge, the way they always used to in winter, and although the crispness of the cold persists unrelentingly, he smiles all the way from the glitter in his blue eyes to the tips of his fingers as he throws his arms out, as though waiting to fold Merlin into them. “I’m back!”

Merlin turns to look at Arthur properly, but his eyes are just short of vacant. He smiles, but only enough to show in his cheeks. “Yeah,” he says as he gets to his feet. “Come on. Let’s go home.”


End file.
